i'm living in an age that screams my name at night...

[walksbyherself]

my body is a cage

Thor AU for this prompt on norsekink; Odin/Loki, Thor/Loki
Approx 10,200 words
Contains sexual situations, politics, power dynamics and all combinations thereof
Now also available on my DW

Summary: my body is a cage / that keeps me from dancing with the one I love / but my mind holds the key


When they were children, Thor and Loki were inseparable. Frigga doted on them both in equal measure; the matrons of the court shook their heads as the boys chased each other down the palace halls. The guards called them both princes and it was assumed by all that where one was, the other would not be far behind.

No one calls Loki a prince anymore. He is Odin’s favored servant now, still treated with distinction, but with less liberty than he had as a child. The laughing boy is a thoughtful young man, to be found enraptured by a book of magic when the All-father has no need of his service. He does not train with weapons as Thor and his companions do, though he watches from the balcony often enough. Thor extends an invitation to him only once; when Loki politely refuses, Volstagg jests that he does not fight because he cannot, for fear of ruining his delicate hands. Sif grinds her heel into his toes and hollers an apology, but Thor can see Loki flinch.

There is nothing particularly special about this banquet, no cause to distinguish it from a hundred other feasts in Thor’s memory. He thinks so, at least, until the revelry begins to subside. More than half of the guests have already retired for the evening. Odin motions for Loki to attend him and a tall shadow detaches itself from the wall behind his father’s chair. He pours Odin a fresh cup of mead, the motion smooth and practiced, his sleeve falling back to allow a glimpse of pale skin. Thor wonders if he can really see the flutter of his pulse or if it is just an idle thought. Loki has just set the pitcher down when Odin’s fingers land on his wrist. Loki tilts his head to hear the king’s murmured command. His eyes widen, but he nods his assent, then leaves the room. It is the first time Loki has ever been sent away early; Thor watches him go.

Thor sleeps restlessly that night and rises early, letting his feet choose their own path as he wanders the halls of the palace. He has just decided to double back to the training grounds when he sees Loki standing in the middle of the corridor. He is dressed in last night’s clothes, carefully but imperfectly. He does not answer until Thor has called his name for the third time.

“Ah, good morning,” Loki replies at last, smoothing his hair with one hand. “What brings you here so early?”

“No particular business. I decided to rise early rather than chase further sleep. And you?”

“I?” His gaze flickers from floor to walls to his own hands, everywhere but Thor’s face. “I did not have a restful night either.”

Thor frowns. “Are you ill, Loki? You do not seem yourself.”

“Oh, no. I am quite well.” Loki smiles, by all appearances genuine. “Better than expected, actually; merely tired. We will see each other later, yes?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before turning down an adjoining corridor. It isn’t until Loki is gone that Thor realizes where he is; the only rooms on this hall belong to his father.

He does not want to believe it. It is entirely plausible that he mistook his father’s command and Loki’s appearance for more than what they are. Such reasoning placates him for several days, before court gossip undercuts his self-deception.

It was only a matter of time, the whispers say, before Odin took advantage of the opportunity presented to him. Loki is a well-formed young man, even if he is a Jotun underneath. The young man himself certainly seems pleased, based on the reports of those who have seen him traversing the halls in the wee hours. There are no reports of discord between Odin and the lady Frigga, either. Some of the bolder tongues covet the harmony in the All-father’s house and wonder how he has managed such a thing. (They do not say this in Thor’s hearing, but the words find their way to his ears nonetheless.)

In the end, Thor decides to speak with his mother, in hopes that she will have some reassurances. He knocks once on her door before opening it. “Mother, I--” He freezes on the threshold.

Frigga sits on a low couch, her hair taken down in preparation for a more elaborate style at dinner. Loki is beside her, speaking in an undertone. He breaks off with a start when he catches sight of Thor, hands frozen in mid-gesture.

For her part, Frigga does not seem much surprised. “You may go, my dear. We will speak more later.” She touches Loki’s cheek; he catches her hand in his as he stands up, bowing low over it.

“Your majesty,” he murmurs, lips nearly brushing her knuckles before he lets go. He slips past Thor in the doorway, seeming to take no notice of Thor’s shell-shocked expression. He acknowledges him with a deep nod and “your highness,” then he is gone.

Thor stares after him a moment before shaking himself and stepping inside, pulling the door shut behind him. “Do you have need of his service as well?”

“Crude, my son, and unbecoming.” Frigga pats the now vacant space beside her on the couch. “Loki is part of our household, as he has always been--”

“Not as he has always been,” Thor mutters, even as he accepts the offered seat. “He is...Did you know when Father brought him here what he would become?”

His mother is quiet for a long moment. “Laufey made it very clear when the treaty was signed,” she says at last. “He surrendered his eldest son into the All-father’s house, a sign of Jotunheim’s submission to Asgard.”

“But Father--”

“--would have him serve,” she finishes. “That it displeases you would be regrettable to him, but neither would it change his mind.”

“But how can it not displease you?”

“Because I love your father, and he loves me in return. Nothing can diminish that. I need not possess his body, nor he mine--” Here, Thor flushes and looks away; Frigga hides a smile. “--to know I have his heart. Someday, I think, you will understand.” Frigga lays her hands over Thor’s. “Perhaps we made a mistake, allowing you and Loki to be so close as children, but I thought he made you happy.”

“He did,” Thor confesses. “But we aren’t children anymore.”

After that, Thor endeavors to push thoughts of Loki from his mind. He couples that with a campaign of avoidance; hardly difficult, since Loki generally keeps his own counsel when he is not fulfilling his duties. Thor occupies his time with training and hunting and generally staying as far from the palace as each day allows.

Odin finally calls him home, however, when a delegation from Alfheim arrives in Asgard. They wish to discuss trade between the realms and Odin would have his son join him, the better to introduce him to the responsibilities of governance. Thor accepts, pleased by the request; as arranged, he arrives early to his father’s chambers and waits in the hall for his summons, that they might walk to the throne room together.

He has not been there long when the door opens; the person who joins him in the hall is not his father.

Loki smiles. “Welcome home, my lord. And what brings you here?”

“My father would have me join his audience with the Alfar,” Thor replies stiffly. “What of you?”

“I serve the All-father,” Loki replies, expression carefully placid. “I had thought this was known.”

Thor grits his teeth. “All too well is it known.”

Loki bows his head. “I am humbled by such attention to my service.”

“It is not your service that draws the attention.”

“Then what does?” Loki muses. “The fruits of my labor? Today, for instance, Odin requested that I assist him with his armor in preparation for the audience.”

“My father is not an invalid to be dressed like a doll,” Thor growls.

“I would hardly describe him so, but is that not what servants are for? To do that which you could do yourself, but choose not to?” Loki leans in close to whisper, “Perhaps some day, when you have conquered a whole race of people, you too may have a prince for your very own.” He turns away, but Thor catches him by the arm.

“Mind your tongue, Laufeyson,” Thor warns. “It does you no favors here.”

Loki glances pointedly at where Thor holds him. “I have often wondered,” he murmurs, “just how jealously the All-father guards what is his. Perhaps we will find out together.”

Thor very deliberately lets go. Loki flashes a brilliant smile. “Your pardon, my lord. I would hate to keep you from your duties.”

At that moment, Odin calls for Thor to enter. When Thor glances back, Loki is gone.

Within the month, the All-father enters the Odinsleep. It is by his choice and expected to be brief, but the palace is a quieter, warier place nonetheless. The atmosphere serves only to put Thor back on edge. He cannot flee the palace as before, and now his inability to find Loki seems sinister rather than convenient. At the end of the first week, he enters Loki’s chambers in search of answers. When he discovers Loki is not there, Thor decides to wait him out.

He has been pacing for an hour when Loki returns, a stack of books in hand. If he is surprised by Thor’s presence in his room, he does not show it. “Good afternoon, your highness.”

“Where have you been?” Thor demands. “My father cannot have need of you now.”

“No, he cannot, but your lady mother can. She would appreciate a visit from you as well, I think.”

Thor frowns. “What did she--”

“Her majesty asked me to read to her. She finds this waiting as tiresome as any of us,” Loki continues. “Practice, it seems, has not made it any more agreeable to her.” He sets one of the books down on his writing table before returning the others to places on shelves.

“You do not find it agreeable?” Thor wonders.

“Why should it agree with me?”

“You do not have to...Your time is more your own,” Thor amends. “You have more freedom.”

Of all possible reactions, the one Thor does not expect is Loki’s laughter. It rings like bells off of the high ceiling. When Loki finally collects himself, he scrubs tears from his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Oh, Thor.” He turns, smiling still, but his eyes are green chips of ice. “Don’t use words you don’t understand.”

Thor bristles. “My understanding is perfectly fine.”

“Hardly.” Loki smiles, showing a few too many teeth to be deemed friendly. “If it were, you would know better than to call what I have any kind of freedom.”

“You may go where you will--”

“Within the confines of the palace; no further without an escort,” Loki counters “And I may not leave Asgard.”

“Then I will speak to my father when he wakes. He will surely grant you more--”

“If your next word is ‘freedom,’ I will pull your tongue from your head and beat you with it,” Loki snaps.

“There is no reason for you not to have what you want,” Thor argues. “And no reason for this obstinance. Do you refuse out of general contrariness or because I am the one who makes the offer?”

“When did you becomes so generous?” Loki steps closer, studying Thor’s face with an unnerving level of scrutiny. “You were hardly this giving when we were children,” he murmurs.

Thor resists the urge to look away. “Things changed,” he replies. “You changed.”

“No.” Loki shakes his head. “Not me, just what they called me, though it has been enough to fool many.”

“Because he shouldn’t keep you like this,” Thor says. “It’s unseemly.”

“In what way? It keeps a peace between our kingdoms; it does not anger your lady mother; it does not anger me. What makes this so particular with you, Odinson?”

“Nothing. The cause is not...Why must there be a cause?” Grimacing, Thor looks away at last. “I will speak to him.”

Loki’s expression softens; he shakes his head. “Of all the things to go to war with your father over, don’t let it be his whore.”

“Don’t call yourself that!” Thor bellows.

“Why not?” Loki takes a seat on the edge of the bed, examining a loose thread at the end of his sleeve. “It’s not as if I’m ashamed of it. The All-father is hardly cruel; there are considerably worse things he could do.”

“Not to me.”

Loki’s impassive mask slips for the barest second, his expression stunned and vulnerable. In the next moment, he sneers theatrically. “Ah, so this is all about you, then? And what is it you want, my lord?” He falls back on the blankets, stretches slowly until his back arches. “Something in particular? Or may I guess what pleases you?”

In an instant, Thor is crouched beside him on the bed; he locks one hand around Loki’s jaw until he draws a gasp from him. “Do not turn this into a joke.”

“Then what may I do?” Loki asks, breathless. “This?” He touches Thor’s lower lip with two fingers. “Or this?” His had slides lower, over Thor’s chest and down to his hip. Thor’s hold on his jaw loosens, his hand sliding back until it cradles Loki’s skull. He can smell parchment and ink and the faint perfume of soap; simple, common scents that are dizzying now. Thor bows his head, lips skating over the slice of throat exposed by Loki’s open collar.

Loki sighs. “Tell me what you would have of me, my lord. I am yours to command.”

“No!” Thor leaps back as if scalded. He rakes a hand through his hair, stalking away from the bed. “No, not like that. I won’t have you offer yourself up as if that’s your only purpose.”

Loki lets his eyes fall shut, making a dismissive gesture. “Too sullied for your tastes. I understand.”

“Must you twist everything I say?!” Thor whirls around, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He grabs a fistful of Loki’s shirt, hauling him up into a bruising kiss. Loki cries out; Thor nearly pulls back until Loki’s fingers wind through his hair, keeping him in place. Thor breaks the kiss only with breath demands it. “I would have you because that is what you desire,” he pants.

Loki blinks dazedly up at him. “Oh, you are a fool,” he whispers. “But you are my fool.”

It is the hour before dawn when Thor wakes. Loki is curled against his side, one arm draped proprietorially across Thor’s chest. Thor would like nothing better than to drift back into sleep--or better still, employ some creative means to rouse Loki--but this is not his place; he should leave before someone catches them together, sees him leaving Loki’s room. Slowly, he slides toward the edge of the bed.

Thor does not make it halfway before Loki’s hand tightens on his bicep, nails digging in. “And where are you going?” Loki wonders, voice still thick with sleep.

“To my rooms, and then...” Thor lets the words trail off. In all honesty, he had not thought much beyond leaving.

“And then nothing,” Loki replies. “You very nearly ruined my plan not to let you out of bed today. I would not have taken kindly to that.”

“But what about--”

“Nothing,” Loki repeats, slinging a leg across Thor’s hips as he sits up. “There is nothing you need worry about.” He bends down to whisper into Thor’s mouth, “Not today.”

Odin wakes the following morning. A feast is prepared for that night and everyone wears their finest, items selected especially for the occasion. The gleam of so many jewels and silks should hide simpler attire, but Loki--in a green so dark as to be thought black--only stands out all the more. Thor cannot take his eyes off of him. For his part, Loki refuses to look at him, save one slow shake of his head as he fills the first of many cups.

Frigga retires early, having scarcely rested during the Odinsleep. She passes by Loki first on her way out of the banquet hall; he murmurs something that makes her laugh. When she reaches Thor, her smile softens; she catches his hand and squeezes it. “Smile, my heart. It is a happy night.” He obliges her, but the gesture feels thin and false.

The festivities continue long into the night. The music becomes less practiced and more lively, shifting to accommodate each new request shouted by the company. Insults and poetry are traded frequently and in a similar spirit. As is customary, three times throughout the feast, someone toasts to the All-father’s health. This night, the first is shouted by a Valkyrie from the far benches who climbs on her seat to be heard. “Hail Odin, victory bringer, god of hosts!”

“Odin, hail!” comes the reply.

Thor considers taking the second toast for himself, but lets it pass; he has plenty of opportunities left before him. Instead, the chance is taken by a member of Odin’s personal guard; the youngest, recently inducted. His booming voice is at odds with his youthful looks; the guests beat fists and cups against the table in a drum roll louder than musicians could ever achieve.

The third and final comes during a lull in the music, when the conversation similarly ebbs. Loki steps forth to Odin’s table, his own cup raised. No servant has ever given the toast, but Loki is also firstborn to Laufey, a prince of the blood, and an honored guest in his own way. The right is his to take; no one dares deny him. When he speaks, his voice can be heard as clear as his laughter; it rises and falls in a musical cadence that stops just short of a song.

“Hail Odin, he that reigns, father of all. Hail the wise one, the one-eyed, the raven god. Hail the smith of battle, the master of spears, this son of Borr.”

There is a moment of ringing silence before “Odin, hail!” rips from every throat in the room with a resounding cheer.

Loki bows his head; Odin reaches up, stilling him with a hand on the back of his neck, and presses a kiss to his brow. Loki smiles and Thor feels a dagger twist in his heart. Within the hour, the All-father departs, his obedient servant trailing behind. The moment they are out of sight, Thor hurls his cup to the floor and calls for more mead.

He is the last to leave the banquet hall. The thought of returning to his own rooms--silent and empty--repulses him. He follows the path to Loki’s chambers instead, not even considering the chance that Odin has kept Loki with him for the night. When he arrives, Thor tries the door and finds it locked; proof, at least, that Loki is inside. He knocks twice and waits. Silence stretches and Thor knocks again, the sound echoing along the hall. He is giving serious thought to kicking the door from its hinges when the door opens a fraction. Loki’s expression is cold. “It is very late, my lord. You should retire for the evening.”

Thor shakes his head. “I had to see you.”

Loki sniffs. “You can see me quite well from where you stand, unless you are drunker than I first supposed.”

“Let me in, Loki.” Thor presses one hand against the door. “Please.”

“If it will quiet you.” Loki opens the door wider; Thor hurries inside before his luck changes. “Now what is it you want?” Loki asks, crossing the room to lean against a bookcase. That it is the furthest he can get from the bed does not escape Thor’s notice. “What can you possibly want to discuss that could not wait until morning?”

“I had to see...” Thor stumbles over the words; Loki taps his foot impatiently. “I had to see you, as I said. To see that you were well.”

“Why should I not be well?” Loki demands. “I have not been carousing.”

Loki knows what he wants to ask, Thor is certain of it. He is baiting him, forcing him to speak of what he hates to even think. “I wanted to be sure you had not been ill-used.”

Loki’s eyes widen and his mouth gapes prettily in feigned shock. “Such ideas you have, my lord. And who would dare to use me ill, especially now with the All-father back among us?”

“You know what I ask!”

“I do know,” Loki murmurs, all pretenses dropped for the moment. “Would that make it easier for you, my lord, if you could make your father the villain? If he were cruel and I were a cowering damsel, eager for rescue?” He tilts his head. “Such a thing could be arranged, I suppose, if he were to learn just how well I serve his house--”

Thor crowds Loki into the narrow space between the bookcase and the wall. “You can never tell him.”

“Can’t I? Of all the things forbidden me, you were not one of them. And you are the prince of Asgard; are you not allowed to do as you please, take what you please?”

“I am not allowed to steal from my father,” Thor murmurs.

Loki’s eyes flash. “And I am his servant, not his possession. Do not tell me conscience plagues you now.”

“It is not that.”

“Then what troubles you?” Loki skims his fingers through Thor’s hair. “Tell me.”

“You were happy tonight,” Thor manages at last.

Loki’s mouth quirks, halfway to a smile. “Should I not have been?”

“No!” Thor jerks away, out of Loki’s reach. “You--How can you go from him to me and back again, as if there were no difference?”

Loki shakes his head. “What should I do, find Odin suddenly repulsive? As if that would not give the game away.”

“Is that what is was, a game for you?” Thor presses. “A pleasant distraction?” Another motive occurs to him, a more bitter one he wishes instantly he could forget. “Or was it a trick?”

“What?” Loki half-laughs the question. “Where does this doubt come from?”

“Was it a trick?” Thor repeats. “A card to play when you have need of it, a favor owed to you by the prince of Asgard.” He laughs bitterly. “And that is only if you decide to play fair. Why not just make me the laughingstock of the Nine Realms? The mighty Thor, coveting scraps from Odin’s table, seduced by his father’s whore--”

The punch catches Thor by surprise. If he had seen it coming or had consumed less drink, he might have dodged it or simply shaken the blow off. Instead, he is knocked sprawling. He gets unsteadily to his feet, spitting blood.

Green fire slides down Loki’s hand like a glove; the flames crystallize and shatter continuously, throwing cold sparks. His expression is contorted in fury. “I am bound to your father by oaths and blood, to serve him however he sees fit, and he treats me with more deference. I told you long ago that I was not ashamed. You shall not make me so.” Loki’s eyes flare red. “I see nothing here I desire.”

Those words clear Thor’s head faster than any blow. “Loki--”

“Out, Odinson.” What little light was in the room seems dimmed further, only Loki’s balefire still bright. “Unless you would care to explain to the All-father why you are in my chambers at such an hour.”

Thor stumbles in his retreat, unwilling to call Loki’s bluff.

The effects of the mead keep Thor abed until late into the morning. Once he has risen and dressed, he spends the rest of the morning hunting the palace for Loki. The doors to his chambers are wide open, flaunting his absence. Thor is running out of places to look when he passes by the training grounds.

Of all outcomes, he had never considered this: Loki swinging a spear at Sif’s throat. Sif skips backward, laughing, blocking Loki’s second strike with her own weapon. Loki stabs low, aiming at her feet; Sif blocks again, only to realize the move was a feint. She narrowly dodges the follow-on strike, then switches to the offensive. The sparring match picks up speed and force, weapons blurring. Kicks and punches are thrown in, every stumble suddenly ominous.

As quickly as the fight had escalated, it stops now. The tip of Sif’s spear rests in the hollow of Loki’s throat; Loki’s sits just beneath her ribcage. They stare at each other, panting for breath; Thor sees the assessment pass between them, the odds of following through with the killing stroke before the other might. Then, the tension breaks. Loki laughs. “It is not my day, my lady.”

Sif grins. “It will be yet; you are improving.”

“I have an excellent teacher.” Loki makes a sweeping bow; as he stands, he catches sight of Thor and further laughter dies on his lips. “My lady, if you will pardon me, I must speak with my noble lord in private.” Loki’s voice is cold and clipped; Sif pays it no mind.

“No pardon needed. Shall I wait for you here?” she asks.

Loki nods. “Please. This will not take long.”

He leads Thor through the colonnade that surrounds the training ground and into a sheltered alcove, just wide enough for two people to stand together. Thor has seen it used often enough as a meeting place for courtship, where two lovers might speak without being overheard. Loki does not appear to attach any such romantic notions to his choice now; he keeps his back pressed flush against the wall, as far from Thor as possible, with his arms folded over his chest.

“Last night--” Thor begins.

Loki’s lip curls in a snarl. “Accost me like that again and I swear by the bones of my fathers, I will kill you myself and damn the consequences.”

“That would be within your right,” Thor agrees, temporarily shocking Loki into silence. “I should not have approached you as I did, said what I did. I was...I found that watching you attend my father was more difficult than I expected.”

“Is this how it will be now?” Loki’s voice is calmer, but barely. “You will drink yourself into a stupor each time your father even considers touching me. We shall have to warn the royal brewers; between you and Volstagg, they will run dry.”

“I crave your pardon,” Thor says. “I will never--”

Loki presses his fingers hard against Thor’s mouth. “Do not say that,” he whispers fiercely. “Never is a very long time.” He takes his hand away. When Thor does not try to speak again, he adds, “As for my pardon, you shall not have it yet.”

“But--”

“I did not say never,” Loki adds, with the barest hint of a smile. “But I am not a maiden to be wooed by the first signs of contrition.”

“So...I am to court you?” Thor hazards.

Loki chuckles. “You are permitted to try.”

“You wish to get him a gift?” Sif’s skepticism is milder than he had feared; more amused that he would want to than suspicious as to why.

“We quarrelled,” Thor explains. “It was foolish, but he has not forgotten it and I would have peace in my father’s house.”

“Ah.” Sif nods. “That explains his mood the other morning. He is normally not so bloodthirsty in practice.”

“Normally?” Thor echoes.

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you now,” Sif says. “He came to me some months ago and asked for weapons instruction. He requested only that I tell no one.”

“How did he convince you?”

Sif arches an eyebrow. “Alone among people who do not know what to make of him, wishing to learn something he has not been raised for, that some would say he has no business knowing? I cannot think how he appealed to me.” When Thor looks suitably abashed, she grins. “Now, what of your gift?”

Thor slips into Loki’s room when he is next at the training grounds. The book--he has been promised by those who know such things--is quite rare and a text much praised by sorcerers for the knowledge it contains. (“You can’t just give it to him,” Sif had argued. “If this quarrel remains with him as much as you say, then simply presenting it to him will not be enough to shake his anger. He is a trickster; trick him.”)

Thor leaves it on Loki’s writing table, half hidden beneath a stack of parchment. A few days later, Thor catches sight of Loki reading on a bench along the colonnade, so absorbed in the text he appears ignorant of Thor’s presence. Thor leaves him be.

The second gift is something he has more experience procuring. The spear is shaped by the finest smiths in Asgard. Its blade will never dull, nor the shaft break; it has not Gungnir’s power, but it will strike true. Thor balances it atop the door frame inside Loki’s room. Sif tells him that Loki brings it to their next practice, and that it suits him well.

A third token would be customary at this stage, something to close the circle, but Thor finds himself running short of ideas. Another trip to Loki’s chambers, he decides, is in order; a closer look at his current possessions should provide the necessary inspiration.

The only problem with this plan is this: when Thor enters the room, Loki is seated at his writing table, facing the door. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Thor endeavors to look merely surprised and not like a child caught snooping; he mostly succeeds. “Good afternoon. I...had thought you planned to meet with Sif.”

“I had indeed, but the chance to meet with you won out.” Loki smirks. “No gift this time?”

“No,” Thor admits, a touch sheepish. “I could not think of what it should be.”

“Then I will tell you.” Loki’s expression sobers. “There is only one thing I would ask of you.”

“Name it and it is yours.”

Loki draws a long, slow breath. “My freedom,” he whispers.

Thor feels only a moment’s apprehension; he dwells instead on the fact that Loki would not have asked this of him only a short time ago, would not ask him now if he did not think he could deliver it. “Consider it done.”

A smile dawns over Loki’s face. “I knew I could count on you.”

This is not a small request, Thor knows that. The key to securing his father’s agreement is his mother; if Frigga will stand with him, Odin will yield. He finds her in the outer courtyard, reviewing correspondence with her handmaid, Gná; Frigga entrusts the last of the messages to her, dismissing her as she sees her son approach.

“Well met, Thor.” Frigga kisses his cheeks. “This is a surprise; what brings you here?”

“There is a boon I would ask of Father,” Thor begins.

“So you court my favor first?” Frigga smiles. “Wise boy. What is it you want?”

“It is not for myself that I ask this thing,” he says. “It is for Loki.” He sees the flicker of surprise on his mother’s face and charges ahead, “It’s his freedom. I...I would see him granted his freedom. He has served Father well, and so might he still--as any citizen of Asgard serves the throne--but not...not as he does now.”

Frigga hesitates before replying. “I believe you mean well, but you should not bring this matter before your father.”

“But he is the only one with the power to--”

“You misunderstand me, Thor.” His mother’s expression is so grave, it stops him in his tracks. “You ask for too much. It is Loki’s service that keeps the peace. Without it, Jotunheim has cause to say that they need not bend the knee to Asgard, and if you think Laufey will ignore that opportunity out of custom or sentimentality, I advise you to look to his son and ask yourself what he would do.”

“Father will never let him go,” Thor whispers. “He cannot.” He had suspected it at times, feared it with all his heart, but a fear is one thing and a truth is quite another. “Does Loki know this?”

“Oh, Thor.” Frigga shakes her head. “Loki has always known.”

The golden door to Loki’s chambers swings wide, dented from Thor’s fist. Loki sits in the center of his bed, the gifted book in his lap, expression blithely unconcerned. “What brings you here, my lord?”

“Everything I have done and would have yet done for you brought me here.”

“Poetry, how delightful.” Loki marks a place in his book, then abandons his seat to close the door. He never looks directly at Thor. “Tell me, what inspired you?”

Thor outmaneuvers him, slamming the door shut with one hand; he keeps his arm braced, blocking Loki’s path. “You lied to me!” he roars. “I have dared treason for you and you knew. You knew I could not broker your freedom without getting a war in the bargain, and yet you let me go. You will tell me why.”

Loki locks eyes with him at last, expression unreadable. “Because it was such a lovely thing to watch you hope. Lovelier than every thing you gave.” Thor searches for the mockery in the words and finds none. Loki holds his gaze for a moment longer before ducking beneath Thor’s arm and slipping away. “But now that time is over and we must deal with what is. If I am freed, it is a refusal of my service. Such a refusal is an insult to all of Jotunheim--a lesser one than they need to march to war. I cannot give it to them. And I cannot wish for anything else.”

“Loki,” Thor murmurs, unsure of what else to say. “It...it isn’t fair.” He sounds like a child; he covers his face with one hand, certain Loki will mock him for it.

“No, it isn’t,” comes the reply, much closer than a moment ago. “But it is enough that you think so.” Loki draws Thor’s hand down. “Come to bed.”

“And if my father sends for you?”

“Then I will go to him, as I must,” Loki says. “Until then, my time is my own. Will you stay?”

“Yes,” Thor whispers. “Of course.”

Loki does not bring up the subject of his freedom again; neither does Thor, though he thinks of it frequently. No bargain is without a loophole, no treaty without a flaw. He need only find it.

Asgard moves toward summer and the weather warms. Thor feels compelled to offer some further gesture of apology and proposes to Loki that they spend a day outside the walls of the palace. Loki accepts, as amused that Thor would suggested as he is eager for extra liberty. They do not travel far, technically remaining within the grounds, but Thor uses the need to escort Loki as his excuse to accompany him. They go to a spot just beyond Frigga’s garden, a rolling hill covered in thick green grass they tumbled down often enough as children. It is not so well traveled anymore; they sit halfway down the slope, hiding them from any casual observers. The capital city sprawls out below them, glittering like the contents of a spilled jewel box. Thor worries that it is not enough, that he should have found a way to grant them more time and a greater journey, until he sees the look on Loki’s face.

They eat lunch on the hill, the food stolen from the kitchens as in their childhood rather than anything properly packed by servants. Loki explains one of the theories contained in the book Thor gave him. Thor does his best to follow the discussion; Loki draws diagrams in the air to illustrate the more complicated points, glowing green symbols unspooling from his fingertips. Thor finds this magic more practical than the theory in question and asks how it is done, which leads to first one tangent, then another.

Gradually, Loki’s descriptions trail off. He rests his head on Thor’s shoulder, drowsy from the warm weather. Thor finishes the last of the apples they brought and studies the clouds. “I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“And how are you enjoying the process?” Loki murmurs, eyes half-lidded

“I have not given myself a headache, if that’s what you fear.” Thor flicks apple seeds at Loki, who yelps and shields his face with one arm. “I have been thinking about you, and the treaty with Jotunheim.” Loki brings his arm down slowly, his attention held. “If you must serve...why should Odin not direct you to serve me? The treaty will remain observed, but then you and I could--” He stops, noticing how the color flees from Loki’s face. “Loki?”

Loki shakes his head. “Don’t you dare,” he says at last. “Don’t even consider such a thing.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Thor wonders. “You are the one always telling me I’m the prince of Asgard and have a right to what I want--”

“Not like this.” Loki scrambles to his feet. “Tell me you have not already asked him.”

Thor frowns. “I have said nothing, but this fear is foolish. We will be as we are now.”

“We will be nothing like that!” Loki rakes a hand through his hair, tugging hard. “You will have power over me--”

“--that I will never use!”

“What did I tell you about that word?!” Loki drops to his knees, framing Thor’s face with his hands. “You will not mean to, you may not even want to, but there will come a time when you will check my tongue or my temper or my reluctance with an idle command and that will be the end of it. You will be my tyrant and not...not anything else.” Loki shakes his head. “No. Do not ask him for that.”

Thor holds his hands up in surrender. “I will not.”

“Swear,” Loki insists.

“I swear it.”

“I should have it from you twice more to be sure,” Loki murmurs, mostly to himself. “But I trust you.”

“I would make any oath I needed to, if it would ease your mind,” Thor says.

“Oh, my fool,” Loki sighs, but he is smiling again and Thor counts this as a victory.

Every nine days, the All-father hears petitions from the citizens of Asgard. Thor has joined him infrequently ever since he came of age, but more regularly these last few months. Frigga takes her seat in the hall halfway through the morning, shaking her head slightly at Thor; he strives to look more attentive.

The concerns brought before Odin on these days are hardly riveting. They are, however, a necessary part of his father’s rule and someday his own. Thor shifts his weight subtly, having already lost the thread of the current dispute. Before he can recover it, a messenger bursts into the hall, staggering in his haste. He bypasses the petitioners and drops to one knee before the throne.

“My king, Heimdall has seen...” The man swallows, clearly unsettled by what he must say. “He does not know what he has seen, but it is coming for Asgard--for the palace--and it is a threat.”

Odin stands, striking the floor with Gungnir. “Clear the hall.”

The petitioners scatter as the royal guard draws in from the walls, flanking the dais. Frigga draws her sword from its sheath beside her throne. Thor thinks he can hear the creak of each piece of armor in the hall. Someone draws their breath and holds it.

There is a sound like glaciers colliding and then battle is upon them.

The frost giants appear from the walls, from the floor; one may come from the ceiling, but Thor is soon too busy fighting to notice. He dares call down only so much lightning in so confined a space, able to attack only those directly within Mjolnir’s reach. Still, the few moments warning Heimdall could provide seem more valuable with each passing second. If they had not been prepared, if the petitioners had still been here--

Thor does not dwell on such thoughts and instead swings low, bringing his hammer down on an ankle, then a knee; he follows through with a strike up into the giant’s jaw, hearing his neck snap with a fierce satisfaction. Grinning, Thor whirls to face his next enemy, only to find none. The frost giants all are dead; the only sounds now are the groans of wounded guardsmen. Most suffer at least the frost burns from a Jotun touch, though some bear more serious wounds. The haze of battle fading, Thor looks for his mother.

She stands on the bottom step of the dais; Odin is with her, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. Even from this distance, Thor can hear his father murmur, “You are well?”

“Quite, my love.” She kisses Odin to confirm it, her sword still clutched in one hand, then turns to direct the treatment of the wounded. She looks as serene as ever, though the hem of her gown trails through Jotun blood.

When Odin turns back to survey the hall, it is with Asgard’s concerns in mind, not his own. “This was a foolish thing to do,” he muses. “Laufey of old did not waste his men so.”

Frigga, calm throughout the skirmish, tenses now. “Where is Loki?”

“No,” Thor breathes, before letting Mjolnir pull him through the halls of the palace. As he gets closer to Loki’s room, he can smell blood and the sharper, lighting-touched scent of magic.

“Loki!”

The first Jotun corpse lies across the threshold, its head nearly cut from its shoulders. Just inside the door, another frost giant is pinned to the floor with Loki’s spear through his throat. Something smolders on the remains of the writing table--either one particularly large Jotun or two heaped together; the smell makes Thor gag, but he presses further into the room.

“Loki, answer me!”

The last body sprawls halfway on its back, a blackened hole where the giant’s heart should be. Wedged into the corner behind it is Loki, green flames still flickering at his fingertips. One side of his face is awash in blood from a gash near his hairline. His eyes are glassy, focusing on Thor only with effort; he keeps one hand up, balefire flaring until he is certain who approaches him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he murmurs, dropping his hand and dousing the fire in one motion.

Thor shoves the dead Jotun aside and crouches down to better assess Loki’s injuries. “Be still, Loki; let me see.”

“There’s no need,” Loki replies, words beginning to slur. “It’s fine. I’m fine. The room’s a loss, but I’m...” Thor slides a hand over the back of Loki’s head; his fingers come away sticky with more blood and Loki whimpers.

“Let’s get you to the healing room.”

“But the rest of them--”

“Taken care of. Now come with me.”

The physicians know their work. Salves are applied to Loki’s wounds that stop the flow of blood and promote healing. Once they have given him a tonic for the pain, they allow Thor in to see him. (Even a prince of Asgard does not outrank the physicians in their own domain.)

Thor takes a seat on the edge of Loki’s cot, brushing aside his hair to assess the gash over his eye; smaller than it had appeared obscured by blood. It will heal well and likely not scar.

“Have you come to tuck me in?” Loki murmurs.

“The healers said I am not to let you sleep yet.”

Loki laughs, groggy still but more like himself. “And how are you going to accomplish that, I wonder?” He reaches up, brushing a thumb over Thor’s mouth. “You will have to be remarkably persuasive.”

Thor smiles. “I had thought only to read to you, but if you are feeling so recovered--”

“As I have been told by many a physician in my time, it is best not to push one’s luck.” Odin stands in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“Your majesty.” Loki lurches upright, the blood draining from his face. He sways, unsteady; Thor places a hand in the small of his back, but Loki flinches away from the touch. “Your majesty, I can explain--”

“I’m certain you can; some of it may even be true. That, however, is not my chief concern.” Loki tries to get to his feet, but Odin gestures for him to remain seated. “The assassins who came for you--did they say anything?”

Loki grips the edge of the cot white-knuckle tight. “They said they had come to fix a mistake.”

“What do you think they meant?”

Loki starts to shrug, but winces. “Allowing me to live, I suppose.”

“But why would Laufey strike at you so boldly?” Thor wonders.

“He wouldn’t,” Loki says slowly. Thor hears hesitation in the words--it has been a long time since Laufey King laid eyes on his son--but does not call it out. “He doesn’t need to start a war to keep me from succession, but others might not be so lucky. If there were a split in Jotunheim, a faction opposed to him...Whoever those dead men owed their allegiance to, they surely have compatriots left alive; the sorcerer who sent them, at the very least, came not here. They will want to see their objectives completed.” Loki frowns, gingerly touching the gash over his eye. “There were only two cohorts, yes? The ones in the throne room and those who came for me?”

Odin nods. “We have searched the palace, and there is no trace of any others.”

“None of them went for the weapons vault?”

“No,” Odin replies, certain and yet thoughtful. Odin and Loki share a look weighted with too much meaning for Thor to parse; Odin lays a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Thor, you will give us a moment alone.”

“But Father--”

“Thor.” Odin and Loki speak at the same time, with frighteningly similar emphasis.

“It will be fine,” Loki adds. “Please.”

The conversation cannot last more than a few minutes; Thor paces the hall anxiously all the same. When Odin finally leaves, Thor steps quickly into his path, bowing his head.

“Father, let me explain--”

“Do you care for him?”

Thor’s head snaps up; he blinks, stunned. “Yes,” he manages, voice hoarse.

“Then you have explained.”

As Odin walks away, Thor wonders just how long his father has known.

By evening, the physicians release Loki from their care. With his own rooms still bearing signs of battle and the need for pretense gone, he joins Thor in his chambers. They say little, the events of the day at last catching up with both of them in a quiet weariness. When Thor struggles with a stubborn clasp on his armor, Loki helps him, then undoes all the rest. He sets each piece of armor aside with an overabundance of care, his motions slow as if he is weighted down by some other burden.

Premonition was always his mother’s gift, never his, but a terrible feeling sweeps over Thor regardless. “Loki?”

Loki does not answer at first; instead, he looks at Thor as if he is trying to memorize him. When he speaks at last, his voice is all too calm. “I leave Asgard in the morning.”

Thor does not understand a word of it at first; the knowledge sinks in slowly, like hooks in his skin. “It is war if you go,” he protests.

“It will be war regardless now,” Loki says. “I have tried to love this captivity as best I can, but I was always a poor choice for a caged thing.”

“Is that all this time has been for you? Captivity?”

“Yes.” He cradles Thor’s cheek with one hand. “Though I will miss my fellow captives dearly.”

Thor wants to push his hand away, but at the same time, does not dare. “The guards will stop you before you even see the Bifrost.”

“No offers of safe conduct? You break my heart.” He lays a finger to Thor’s lips before he can protest. “The bridge is not the only way out of Asgard. It is simply the way you know.”

“Where will you go?”

“It’s better if you don’t know that. Whatever faction holds power in Jotunheim, they will be tracking me from the moment I leave; the fewer people who know where I am, the less risk.”

“To everyone but you.” Thor grits his teeth, knowing he cannot change Loki’s mind. “When will you return?”

“I cannot say,” Loki replies and Thor hears ‘never’ in each word.

When he kisses Loki, it is about force more than anything else. There is not enough time, he thinks, not near enough time for anything. He is angry at Laufey, at Odin, at himself. Part of him rages at Loki too, and Loki whispers, “I know, I know” as if Thor had spoken it all aloud.

Thor says goodbye in bites and bruises and kisses hidden where limbs join body. He knows his desperation must be obvious, but Loki says nothing, merely offers up his throat for the next farewell; he claws red apologies of his own beneath Thor’s shoulder blades. When each wears all the messages the other can think to give him, they curl together in the center of the bed, the blankets kicked so far aside that to search for them is fruitless.

Thor hooks an arm around Loki’s waist. “You will wake me before you go,” he orders.

“I had not thought to do anything else,” Loki replies, drowsy.

Thor wakes to the sound of rain. It is well past dawn and the other side of the bed is empty.

War is everything Thor had hoped it would be, and much more besides. The first few days were violent and glorious. He thought that he would never tire of it. The glory faded more quickly than he anticipated, however, resolving into a grinding monotony. It is not precisely agreeable, but he is capable at it and so Odin keeps him in the field. Thor returns to Asgard only as he does today, to tender his personal reports on the status of the war effort; things he observes that are either too delicate or too nebulous to be entrusted to a normal dispatch. He knows that his father is hungry for news. There is only one person he must speak to first; thankfully, he is close at hand.

“Heimdall.”

“Good day, my prince.”

“Have you seen him?”

If the lack of pleasantries offends Heimdall, it does not show. “Once, when he passed through Nornheim, but their queen refused him hospitality. He took it with grace, saying he had no intention to stay. He has remained hidden from me since.”

Thor nods once. “Good.”

Loki was not the only thing missing from the palace two months ago. The Casket of Ancient Winters was gone from its resting place within the weapons vault and the Destroyer had not moved to prevent a theft. When Thor pressed for answers, Odin replied only that the Casket had been moved to discourage any further incursions by the frost giants. There is only one person who might have carried it off with Odin’s dispensation; not for the first time, Thor wonders just what he and Loki talked of, alone in the healing room. He wonders what his father might know about where Loki has gone, and he wonders most of all what he is sparing himself by not ever asking.

At the end of the day, if Loki is hidden, then Loki is alive and that must be reassurance enough.

Epilogue

A year further into the war and they still cannot break the Jotun sorcerer’s spells. Heimdall’s vision of their movements remains imperfect; practice, however, has taught him to see some details through the spectral fog. When he spies a company of frost giants headed for Midgard, Thor is sent to investigate. It is possible that they are only searching for the Casket; it is equally possible that, given their steady defeat against Asgard, they have decided to conquer a less powerful race.

The Bifrost deposits Thor in the middle of a desert. Land stretches emptily toward the horizon; there is no sign of the Jotun. When he turns around, a man stands a few yards distant, hands clasped behind his back.

“We detected signs of unauthorized dimensional travel,” the man says. “Identify yourself.”

It has been many years since an Asgardian traveled to Midgard, but this is still hardly the welcome Thor expected. “I am Thor Odinson, god of thunder, prince of Asgard. Who challenges me?”

“Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD.” The man looks up at him, nonplussed by the height difference. “If you would come with me, Mr. Odinson.”

Thor follows him over a small rise and sees a curious building: luminous white tunnels that intersect random arcs. It is surrounded by a high fence; guards roll aside a gate as Coulson and Thor approach. As they move further into the camp, Thor notices that the structure is but a temporary one, assembled as hastily as any one of Asgard’s own command posts. Coulson leads him into the narrow corridors to a small, plain room; Thor knows a cell when he sees one and tightens his grip on Mjolnir. “Is this the hospitality of Midgard?”

“We get much more hospitable once we know who we’re dealing with,” Coulson replies. “Just a few questions, Mr. Odinson.”

“And what if I do not care for your questions?”

“Then you’re free to leave at any time, but understand that we may take your departure as a hostile action and react accordingly.”

Coulson’s tone is as mild as ever, but Thor hears the truth of the threat beneath his words. These mortals have made no attempt to take his weapon or armor; it is, perhaps, as much good faith as their suspicious nature will allow. In any case, he has not yet learned what became of the frost giants. He resolves to stay until he does, or until this thin truce buckles.

Thor ducks his head to pass beneath the door frame. Coulson follows a beat behind, reaching for the door; a dark haired man slips through before he can close it.

“Coulson! They said there’s a new...” He trails off as he notices Thor. “Wow. Tall. But not blue, which is a nice change of pace. Tony Stark, by the way, good to--” He breaks off at a pointed look from Coulson. “--not meet you until we make sure you aren’t here to kill us all. No offense, big guy.” Stark shouts into the hall, “Loki, come check this out!”

“What did you say?” Thor murmurs, dazed. His words are drowned out by the response of someone in the corridor.

“If you are testing some new monstrosity and need someone to hold the camera, I told you the last time--” The man in the doorway dresses in the style of Midgard and there is an unfamiliar scar creeping up his neck from beneath his collar. His lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line, but it is undoubtedly Loki. “Gentlemen, if you could give us the room?” he asks.

Visibly reluctant, Coulson and Stark leave, pulling the door shut behind them. Thor hears a heavy lock fall into place. With the others gone, he wants to cross the room, to confirm with his hands that what he sees is not an illusion. Loki’s standoffishness keeps him in place.

“They do very well here, for mortals,” Loki muses, apropos of nothing. “Each of these rooms is watched. If something happens to their system, they can be through that door in moments.” He snaps his fingers. Sparks fly from three spots in the ceiling; Thor can hear a cry go up in the neighboring room.

“What--”

Loki doesn’t let him get any further before he kisses him. Thor’s arms lock around his waist, lifting him off his feet. All too soon, Loki is pulling away. “That was for you alone, not any of them,” Loki breathes. “We will speak more later.”

He slides from Thor’s grasp, straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair with both hands. Another snap of his fingers brings the door swinging open. Coulson is through it in an instant, gun drawn; a team of SHIELD agents fills the hall behind him. Loki ducks his head, expression apologetic. “Sorry about the surveillance; I had to be sure he is who he says.”

“And is he?” asks Coulson, lowering his gun.

“Thankfully, yes,” Loki replies. “Might I have a word?”

Coulson dismisses the other agents and steps back into the hall; Loki joins him, and they confer quietly for several minutes. At last, Coulson nods his agreement. “Give him the tour, just keep your comm open.”

“Of course.” Loki motions for Thor to follow him. “This way.”

“Does he command this force?” Thor wonders, when they have left the interrogation cell behind them.

Loki shrugs. “He oversees the mortals here--most of them, at least. Stark fights on his own as much as with the rest of us; Banner is...unstable at best; and Doctor Foster is carrying a bit of a grudge and refuses to listen to him half of the time. The actual commander is a man called Fury.”

“You have been here a long time,” Thor realizes, torn between surprise and amusement.

“Four of their months,” Loki admits. “Though we have only been here--” He gestures to their surroundings as they step back out into open air. “--three days. After the frost giants came through, we decided an outpost was in order, in case anything else should follow.”

“We,” Thor echoes. “The SHIELD Coulson spoke of?”

“Part of it. SHIELD has guarded this realm for many years. Over time, they came upon threats too great for them to handle alone, and assembled a team for such a purpose. They call it--us--the Avengers.”

“It is a powerful name,” Thor comments, when they are beyond the confines of the fence.

Loki snorts. “You need not make much over it. It is a name and it serves.” He leads Thor up a steep slope, halting abruptly at the top. “Here we are.”

They stand on the rim of an immense crater, the stones within it cracked and scorched. At the very center is a ragged disk of ice that stubbornly refuses to melt. “This is where you fought them,” Thor says softly.

Loki nods once, slowly, lost in thought. “The spells they use to travel take longer than the Bifrost. The disturbances were obvious and we were well entrenched by the time they arrived. It was over quickly--far from prettily done, but quick all the same.”

Thor senses the opportunity to pry and does not take it.

“More frost giants will be here within the month,” Loki continues. “It costs them to travel between the worlds, but the value of the Casket is greater.”

“Then return it to Asgard,” Thor says. “The Jotun have not the hosts they once did; they will not dare to test Asgard’s defenses again. The war is ending.” After a small hesitation, he adds, “You can come home.”

Something helpless flickers in Loki’s expression. “My leaving will prevent nothing as far as Earth is concerned,” he protests. “If they cannot find me, they will destroy whatever they can to send a message. The Avengers...we have fought and bled together; I cannot leave them now.” He frowns, looking out over the crater. “Why can you not stay?”

“The war--”

“--is ending, you said.” Loki’s tone sharpens. “Surely Odin has other capable commanders.”

When Thor does not reply immediately, Loki adds, “Besides, the Bifrost remains open to you. The mortals know of the other realms now; should not Asgard have an emissary here on Earth?”

“I am to play the diplomat now?” Thor wonders.

“Only when you do not play the soldier. The Avengers were not formed to fight Jotunheim; there are threats aplenty native to Earth.”

“And is there room for me here?” He tries for lightness in his tone, but this cannot be a jest. “Will these Avengers--will Midgard have me?”

Loki turns to face him, his eyes a brilliant green. “If there is not, if they will not, then will I leave them. Now will you stay?”

“Yes,” Thor whispers. “Of course.”